CHAPTER X

WEAK YET SO STRONG

THE lads dared not exchange even so much as a whisper during their drive, for old Foxy was close beside them in the back of the cart. But both Phil and Tad felt that they had cause for dread now if never before. Anything so unusual as a midnight drive, in the company, too, of strangers, had never happened before, and the poor boys, as they thought over everything, realised that a crisis of some sort was at hand.

Of the two, Tad was the more miserable. With him, hitherto, temptation had invariably meant yielding, had brought fresh sin and new troubles. And now he feared lest once more he should fall and sink yet deeper in the mire.

Since Phil and he had been constant companions, Tad's conscience had once more awakened. He felt that Phil was a far better boy than he was himself, for in all the trials, the troubles, the miseries that had befallen this poor orphan child, he had not lost his honesty, his truthfulness, nor his simple faith in God.

Tad was conscious of this, and aware, too, for the first time for years, of a longing now and again to be a better lad, more like pure-hearted, gentle little Phil; for there was growing up in his heart for this friend and fellow-sufferer of his, a great love such as he had not hitherto thought he could feel for anyone.

The truest of all books tells us that even a child is known by his doings, whether they be pure and whether they be right; and Tad, so strong in his self-will, and so weak in temptation, had taken knowledge of his little friend, and had come to know that in this frail boy there was a certain moral strength wanting in himself.

And now an occasional glance at Phil's small, pale face as the white moonlight fell upon it set Tad wondering why this child was so different from himself, and whether the events of this night would bring to them both serious consequences, or leave them as they found them.

He was still deep in thought when the cart stopped. For some time it had been driven across what looked like a common, a wide open space, with no buildings of any sort upon it; but now the halt was made at a little gate, almost hidden by the bushy growth of underwood and young trees forming a copse, which began where the common ended, and which, though bare and leafless now, cast a deep shadow over the road.

In silence the driver and his companion got down from the front seat, and Renard and the boys from the back. Tad noticed that the man Paul took from under the seat a small canvas bag, in which some things rattled, and also a little parcel which he slipped into his coat pocket. The boys looked at each other, a vague horror and fear dawning in their faces—a foreboding of danger.

Summoning up his sinking courage, Tad touched Renard on the arm, and said in a whisper:

"Master, where may this path lead, and what are we goin' to do?"

Renard turned upon him sharply.

"Dat's not you beezness," he replied. "You keep wid me and speak not." And taking the boys by the arm, one on each side, he strode on behind the driver and his mate, their feet making no sound on the moss-grown pathways along the deep shadows of which Paul now and again turned the light of a lantern, so that the little party could see where they were going.

Presently the copse ended in another gateway which led into a garden, and here, with flower-beds and ornamental trees all round it, in a situation which, in summer time, must have been beautiful indeed, stood an old-fashioned, quaint, two-storeyed house. A wing, on the right of the building, extended as far as what apparently was a stable yard, for it was divided from the garden by a wall and a high gate. As the men and lads stood—still within the shadow of the trees—looking about them, the deep growl and bark of a large dog sounded from the further side of the wall.

"Hark at that!" whispered Renard to Paul. "It must cease or our journey is fruitless."

"It shall cease," replied the man; "have I not come prepared?"

And he drew the parcel from his pocket, and out of it a piece of red, raw meat.

Slipping off his shoes, and signing to his companions to follow his example, he trod noiselessly across the gravel-walk, and reaching the gate in a few strides, flung the meat over.

There was a little fierce rush and growl, a savage snap of powerful jaws and click of hungry teeth, then a muffled, choking howl, a smothered groan, and silence.

After waiting a minute or two, Paul stole back to the little group still standing in the deep shadow.

"That one will bark no more," remarked he. "Now come—there is nothing to fear. The monsieur and his lady are quite old, and there are only women servants in the place. Follow me."

And Paul led the way round the house to the back, where a little scullery or wash-house was built out into the garden, with the kitchen apparently behind it. In the wall of the scullery, a small window was open.

Paul now whispered a few words in Renard's ear. And the latter nodded and said, "Oui, parfaitement," then turned to the boys, who stood by wondering what was coming next.

For a minute or so, old Foxy looked first at one of the lads, then at the other, then back at the window, as though measuring with his eye the available space. At last, making up his mind, he leaned forward, and spoke in Phil's ear:

"Philipe, you shall go in dere, and tro' de house, and you weel for us open de big door or a weendow if de door be deeficult. Hear you?"

Phil did not answer.

Tad's scared eyes were fixed upon his friend's face, and he saw the thin cheeks blanch, but the boy's gaze, fixed upon Foxy, was clear and steadfast, and his pale lips were resolute.

"Ma foi! Why answer you not, Philipe?" said his master, after a moment's silence. "Hear you?"

"Yes, master, I hear," replied the boy, in a low, firm voice that somehow thrilled Tad to the heart.

"Den do wat I tell. Go in dere!" And Renard pointed a crooked forefinger at the window. "Queek, queek!" added he, as Phil did not stir, "or you weel be sorry." And a threatening look in the man's dark, evil face gave emphasis to his words.

Tad held his breath with a strange, mingled feeling of horror, wonder, and admiration, as he saw his little companion draw himself up, and look straight and unfaltering into Foxy's green eyes. Another moment, and the childish voice said firmly:

"No, master, I will not go."

"Wat is dat you say? You weel not?" said Foxy in an angry whisper. "But wait a leetle, it am you dat shall pay later, when old Renard give you de steek." Then he turned to Tad and said: "You did hear me wat I say to Philipe; well now I tell you same. Go you in dere and open to us, Edouard."

Tad met his cruel master's wicked, green eyes, then glanced at Paul and Jean, who were impatiently waiting. The lad's courage was a poor one at best, and though he well knew that the crime of burglary was intended, and that he was required to help the burglars, he would never have found strength to withstand the pressure put upon him, had not Phil just at that moment laid his little, frail hand on his friend's shoulder and said:

"Brave it out, Tad! Don't give in!" And then Tad heard the boy add under his breath: "O Lord, please help us, and save us from being wicked."

"Wed you go in dere?" hissed Foxy again.

"Will I?" repeated Tad, shamed out of his cowardice by Phil's example. "Will I, master? No, then—I just won't, so there!"